Behind the Front
by Slipstream77
Summary: For the first time, Neal looked at Peter.  "You know, I always figured that if I ever got an FBI agent fired, it was going to be you." . . . A day after the events of "Front Man," Neal and Peter react in unexpected ways.
1. Chapter 1

Neal was at the office before Peter - and before everybody else, too. The place was deserted, except for Neal at his desk near the door. _Security must have let him in, _Peter thought automatically.

Or not. _ Never met a lock he couldn't pick . . ._

Peter purposefully dragged his mind away from thoughts of Neal's illegal skills - and the mischief the man could get up to in an office devoid of agents to keep an eye on him.

He'd meant to get in earlier today, really he had; the wrapup of the Wilkes case was going to keep all of them busy.

But it hadn't been a normal night. Normally, Peter Burke slept the sound sleep of the just. But he'd suffered through a mostly sleepless night, interrupted with stupid dreams of Neal looking at him earnestly while he told Peter the most absurd lies - and then looking childishly hurt when Peter didn't believe them. Of Neal disappearing, leaving behind only his anklet on Peter's desk with a red bow wrapped around it and a note that said, _Here's your big chance to go three-and-oh! xoxo Neal_. Of Neal with Wilkes, being tased over and over again. Of Neal walking away, Alex leading him by the hand and saying, _You don't mind if I borrow him, do you? _Of hearing a loud boom through the walkie-talkie - followed by silence. Of Jones' audible fear when he told Peter that Wilkes had shot Neal in the chest - _why the hell hadn't he forced a vest on Neal at the airport? - _that Neal was in the ambulance and Peter needed to meet them at the hospital right away.

Of rushing into the ER and seeing the stricken look on Jones' face, the blood on his shirt, his hands, that told him he was too late, that Neal was gone, gone . . .

_Jesus. Enough. _He forced his thoughts back to the here and now. Neal was fine. None of those things had happened yesterday. Except . . . yes, Neal had been tased. And of course, Neal _had _lied to him about "forgetting" the anklet, but that wasn't worth losing sleep over. Peter didn't like Neal's prevarication, but he accepted that it was a part of their routine - like drinking coffee. Or bickering. In truth, Peter didn't think Neal could stop lying anymore than he could stop breathing. And after Peter's disjointed, disturbing dreams of the night before, he didn't want to contemplate that scenario. He could live with the lies and half-truths - to a point anyway - because he didn't like the alternatives.

Which brought him back to the question of exactly what Neal was doing in the office so early - and whether Neal would tell the truth if asked.

Peter felt an odd sense of guilt. Neal had been through a lot the past two days . . . maybe he'd had some nightmares of his own last night. Yet here he was.

Neal wasn't the early-bird type. Peter often was, subscribing to the belief that the boss ought to set a good example. And, of course, he loved his job. Whereas Neal's custom - on the days Peter didn't pick him up, anyway - was to saunter in right before the workday started. Not late and yet not early either, as if to say, _I'm here because I have to be, but I'm not excited about it_. All part and parcel of Neal's governing philosophy - that is, to never appear to be trying too hard. At anything.

Right now, though, his consultant gave every impression of being hard at work, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, typing diligently. He didn't even look up as the elevator chimed and Peter opened the door.

Neal was in a rhythm, keys singing under his fingers. Once you got into the spirit of it – that is, as an exercise in self-aggrandizement - report-writing wasn't really that bad. It was fun, seeing how good he could make himself look in his version without going overboard. After all, who was going to contradict him, Wilkes?

He was pretty sure his theory of report-writing wouldn't quite dovetail with Peter's, but it would be awfully boring if he and Peter saw everything the same way, wouldn't it?

He heard the elevator ding and someone push the door open, but he was in the midst of a particularly eloquent sentence and wanted to finish his thought.

"You're here early."

A familiar voice. No doubt awaiting Neal's witty riposte.

"Well, what can I say, the guy I work for is a real slavedriver," Neal said, leaning back in his chair and raising an eyebrow.

Peter, never good at hiding his emotions, couldn't help the look of surprised disappointment.

Neal burst out laughing. "So sensitive! Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Maybe a little," Peter said, sounding miffed.

Neal rolled his eyes. "To quote someone I know, 'cowboy up.'"

"I never said you had to be here at this hour."

"Peter, take it easy. It was a joke." The agent just looked at him. Neal sighed. "Do I have to apologize for making a joke?"

Peter still looked stung. For once, Neal was at a loss. Usually Peter was easy to read, but there was an undercurrent here that he couldn't quite divine. Neal chalked it up to the agent still being annoyed over his quick trip off the reservation the night before.

But he certainly wasn't going to bring _that _up if Peter wasn't.

"Well, it's not that funny," Peter informed him. Neal made a face.

"The other day, you yelled at me because I was late. Today you're annoyed because I'm early. You might want to consider the virtues of consistency, Peter."

"Well, the only completely consistent people are dead," Peter informed him absently. He was scanning the top of Neal's desk.

"Look at you with the quotes - nice! You're channeling Mozzie," Neal said in an approving tone. "Let me guess: Oliver Wendell Holmes?"

"Aldous Huxley," Peter answered absently. He lifted his gaze to meet Neal's.

"There's nothing nefarious to see down there, you know," Neal said. He glanced down, then back up at Peter. After a beat he added lightly, "I already hid the incriminating stuff."

Peter didn't laugh at that joke either, Neal noted. On the contrary: he looked positively dour. Not to mention exhausted. Everybody's favorite FBI agent had certainly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed today.

"So - you don't have to be here," Peter persisted. "But you are - why?"

"Why? I am doing what most people here do - I am _working_." Neal drew out the last word, enunciating slowly and carefully like you might to someone who didn't speak English. "Is that so unusual that we need to make a federal case out of it?"

Now Peter was the one to roll his eyes.

"I know you've had a rough 24 hours," Peter said stubbornly. "You didn't need to be here at the crack of dawn. Hell, you could have taken today off if you wanted to."

"That's not what you said last night," Neal said, then wished heartily that he'd kept his mouth shut. He hadn't wanted to raise that topic.

Peter actually looked chastened. "Well, I – I was annoyed last night. I'm sorry – I probably should have said it."

The last sentence was said such a low voice, and so quickly, that for a moment Neal thought he'd misheard. In fact, though, Neal had excellent hearing, honed by years of listening for the tread of security guards on polished floors, the far-away sound of a tripped alarm, the satisfying click of the tumblers falling into place as a lock was picked . . . .

No, he hadn't imagined Peter's words, or misheard them. Neal felt his own eyes widen in spite of himself, then looked away to cover his shock. Under normal circumstances he'd have had a clever comeback, but instead all he could manage was, "Not necessary."

When what he really wanted to do was check Peter for some kind of secret-but-serious head injury.

Peter had just _apologized _to him.

Peter hardly ever apologized. Even when by rights he should. Like when he'd refused to believe Neal about being framed for the jewelry heist. _You let me down, Neal_, he'd said, in a solemn, self-righteous tone that made Neal want to grab Peter and shake some sense into him_. _

That moment had scared the crap out of Neal. And it wasn't Peter's lack of faith that scared him: rather, it was his own reaction to it. Neal had spent plenty of time around Peter and being chased by Peter and being frustrated by Peter. Yet no matter how close the call, how tense the confrontation, how heated the disagreement - he'd never imagined physically going _at _Peter until that moment. He'd had to fight the urge to reach across that table, grab Peter by the shirt, and say, _I _told_ you I didn't take it. Could you just, for once, believe me?_

_You let me down, Neal, _Peter had said_. _Like hell. Thinking about it still pissed him off, all these months later.

Neal thought he might have been owed an apology after _that_, even if only a pseudo, half-hearted one, but nope.

Considering what Neal had done last night, it was odd that Peter would choose today of all days to say he was sorry. Neal had disappeared - sans anklet. And Peter had made it quite clear that he knew Neal had met with Alex and was conspiring with her to steal the box.

And still, after all of that, he'd apologized. Distinctly un-Peter-like behavior, and it put all Neal's senses on alert.

On the bright side, though, this must mean Peter's current mood didn't stem from Neal's antics of the night before. If it did, Peter surely wouldn't be asking Neal's forgiveness - for anything.

_Okay, so he must be annoyed about something else._

Peter wouldn't let it drop. "Anyway, you didn't answer my question - why are you here so early?"

Eager to defuse this situation - though he had no idea why it even was a situation - Neal smiled his most charming smile, the one most people couldn't resist. True, Peter wasn't most people, but Neal figured it was worth a try.

"I did answer it, if you recall. Remember - working? You see, I just knew you were going to want a full report about everything that happened with Wilkes. Which means I've got a lot of writing to do. Figured I should start early."

Neal waited for a smart-aleck comment about how Peter had finally gotten him trained to do paperwork. He'd served Peter up a big hanging curveball and fully expected the agent to knock it out of the park. But Neal was left wanting. Instead, Peter gave him a long, searching look that ended with a curt nod. Then he walked up the steps to his office without saying another word.

Neal watched him go with narrowed eyes, still mulling the conversation over in his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

By lunchtime, Neal thought he had figured Peter out.

And truthfully, the whole thing was kind of touching.

Peter had been closeted in his office most of the morning – probably working on his own report, Neal guessed – although he'd had one long and rather vigorous discussion in Hughes' office. He'd left Neal to his writeup, and Neal, true to his word, had worked on it most of the morning.

Neal did, however, take a few well-timed breaks. He circulated around the office like always, ostensibly to chat up the other agents and catch up on anything he'd missed. But his real purpose was to do some under-the-radar intelligence gathering – on the mental state of one Special Agent Peter Burke.

Neal liked puzzles, and Peter's bizarre behavior definitely qualified as one. As he worked on his report of the previous day's events, Neal let his subconscious mind tease out the Peter problem. He'd realized long ago that that was how he came up with many of his best ideas – by letting the relevant facts, theories, and impressions bubble away in the background.

A few hours of percolation – aided by some illuminating conversations with his co-workers – did the trick.

...

After heading up the stairs, Neal knocked at Peter's door. Peter was finishing up an email and didn't look up right away. Mindful of the agent's prickly mood, Neal was careful not to open the door before being waved in.

"Soooo," Neal drawled, leaning casually against the doorjamb. "You reamed out Agent Rice in front of the entire office yesterday."

That got the agent's attention instantly. There was something uniquely Peter-like about the way he could instantaneously home in on something that caught his attention – a piece of evidence, a new theory – to the exclusion of everything else. Neal enjoyed triggering that response; in fact, he liked to think that nothing and no one could trigger it quite like he could.

So he watched, pleased and fascinated, as Peter's focus shifted in a flash from whatever boring bureaucratic BS he'd been typing to his consultant. His eyes locked on Neal's – with what emotion, Neal couldn't say. "Hughes tell you that?"

Neal frowned as he sat down in his usual spot. "Hughes?" His tone conveyed just how ridiculous that suggestion was.

_Peter has Hughes on the brain. Interesting. _

"C'mon, Peter, you know better than that. No."

"Then who?"

Neal looked pained. _He is really off his game today. _"Peter, what part of 'the entire office' didn't you understand?"

"Ah."

"Yes." Neal nodded. "Thanks, by the way."

"_Don't_ thank me. That bitch could have gotten you killed." Peter's voice was low but filled with a fury Neal hadn't heard since . . . oh, since the time Peter had discovered that his house had been bugged. And Peter had called Rice a bitch. Neal had never heard Peter use that particular epithet to describe anyone, let alone a fellow agent.

That confirmed Neal's hypothesis. It all fit. What the other agents had told him, Peter's brusque manner today, the atypical profanity.

Peter had been – no, still was – enraged at Kimberly Rice – and really worried about Neal.

A day later, for whatever reason, the emotions hadn't faded. And since he was Peter, he couldn't express them like a normal person.

Hence the unbridled crankiness.

All in all, Neal thought, it was downright endearing to know he could engender that kind of protective anger in Peter. And to confirm that he'd been right about the cause of the agent's peculiar behavior.

Neal couldn't help it: the knowledge gave him a warm glow inside (as did the realization that Peter didn't have a head injury, after all).

Peter wasn't feeling the warmth, though. "If it weren't for your preternatural ability to land on your feet no matter where you're thrown," he said, fairly spitting out the words, "you most likely would be dead."

"'Preternatural'?" Neal said, eyes lighting up with approval. "I like that."

Peter glared at him. "Neal, this is serious. What Rice did—"

Peter abruptly stopped talking and looked meaningfully behind Neal. Neal turned to see Hughes just outside the office, beckoning.

"Excuse me, Peter, Neal. Could I have a moment?"

Peter started to get up, but Hughes gave an impatient head shake. "Just Neal." He turned on his heel and walked back to his office.

Neal swung back to look at Peter and mouthed, _Just me?_

He wouldn't admit to panic. But nerves? Yes, Hughes had that effect on him. Plus, he couldn't remember ever having a solo conversation with the man – well, not since the first time he'd been in the office and Peter had introduced them. When Hughes had asked Peter to leave so that the Special Agent In Charge could put the fear of God into Neal about just how this "deal" was going to work and just what would happen if he ever tried to escape again.

Hughes was the stereotypical FBI higher-up – in ways that Neal liked to think Peter never would be. The man had no sense of humor that Neal could discern. Or, more likely, he had one, but wasn't interested in sharing it with a felon. He was always ready to believe the worst about people, and his world-weary mien said that his beliefs were usually confirmed. He thought the worst of Neal, certainly.

Not at all like Peter. Sure, Peter knew what Neal was – not everything, but enough. And yet, there were aspects of Neal's personality and background that Peter found seductive – though he'd never admit it. Despite every instinct he'd probably been raised with from childhood - or was it because of them? – Peter could admire what made Neal who he was.

Peter's ability to appreciate the flip-side quality of Neal didn't change Peter's intrinsic goodness – but Peter could accommodate both with no sign of cognitive dissonance whatsoever. It was one of things Neal loved most about Peter.

Hughes was a different story – much more of a black-and-white kind of guy. Probably you had to be, to survive as long as he had at the Bureau. Neal knew everything about himself – from his sense of style to his general insouciance and, most especially, to the crimes the FBI had never nailed him on – irritated Hughes on a fundamental level. The senior agent couldn't deny that Neal's efforts helped the white collar division, but it rankled him that a criminal was playing such a key role. Neal knew that, understood it, and acted accordingly: he kept a safe distance from Hughes whenever possible.

Neal believed that Peter would go a long way to keep him out of prison – had done so, in fact. But he was pretty sure that Hughes, given the opportunity, wouldn't feel any qualms about locking Neal up and throwing away the key. Peter, he could confidently handle most of the time. Hughes was far less amenable and, as a result, far more dangerous.

Peter tilted his head toward the door. "Just go." Then in a lower voice he muttered, "He won't bite."

Neal hopped up. He wished he'd had his suit jacket on, but it was still at his desk and he thought it would look strange if he retrieved it now. So he carefully smoothed his tie, unrolled his shirt sleeves, and left.

He could feel Peter's eyes on him, watching closely, as he walked away.

TBC – last part coming up.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal was in Hughes' office for some time.

To Peter, it seemed like too long a time. So long, in fact, that he was forced – not once, but twice – to undertake contrived errands that camouflaged his real purpose: to get a view of what was going on, a view he didn't have from his desk.

Neal was sitting across from Hughes. Nothing unusual there, but it _was _odd to see him sitting so utterly still and ramrod-straight – instead of his usual lounging or fidgeting or, God forbid, angling to rest his feet on the desk as he sometimes tried with Peter. For once Neal wasn't running his mouth, either; Hughes seemed to be doing most of the talking. That was some trick: Peter found it hard to get Neal to shut up for more than a few seconds at a time.

Then again, the consultant had a real (and, Peter thought, healthy) fear of Hughes. The SAIC was not somebody you wanted to antagonize, especially if you were in Neal's position.

He was returning from his second excursion, ostensibly to freshen up his coffee (so what if Peter never normally drank coffee this close to lunchtime; surely no one would notice). This time, he hung around in the bullpen for a while, chatting with Jones while trying not to look too obviously up at Hughes' office.

"Are we going to need another pot of coffee, boss?" Jones gestured to his newly-filled mug.

Peter looked at him with suspicion, but he honestly couldn't tell if Jones was onto him or not. He suspected the former, though. Leave it to Jones to have noted his boss's coffee-drinking routine. Neal delighted in ribbing Peter about his caffeine fixation; apparently Jones was picking up bad habits from their resident felon. Great; that was just what Peter needed in his life.

"Uh, no, thanks," he said quickly – probably too quickly, damn it. "I'm good."

"Just checking," Jones said; it sounded innocent enough, but Peter had decided he wasn't really buying it.

After a little silence – this time it was Jones glancing furtively up at Hughes' office – the younger agent said, in a lower tone, "Say, Peter, is Caffrey . . . is he in some kind of trouble?"

Peter sighed inwardly. He should have known that Jones, perceptive as always, wouldn't be fooled.

"Why do you ask?"

"One, you keep wandering out here – and then looking up there. Two, Neal doesn't look like he's having too much fun to me. And, three, I never get the feeling Hughes is one of Neal's biggest fans."

"He's not, but Hughes knows that Neal contributes to our work." Peter said, almost automatically, as his gaze once again drifted up to the silent tableau in the office above.

"Well, he'd better," Jones said, forcefully enough that Peter looked back at him sharply. "And if he doesn't, I for one would be happy to remind him." Jones lowered his voice again. "If he's giving Neal _any _crap after what he did yesterday, then maybe Hughes needs some . . . clarification."

Peter was about to say that he doubted Hughes intended anything of the sort, then he stopped himself. Very rare for Jones to show this kind of emotion. Peter chewed his lip and let him talk.

"Does he not know that Neal came this close," Jones held up thumb and forefinger an infinitesimal distance apart, "to being shot?"

Peter felt a cold chill slither down his spine as scenes from his nightmare flashed unbidden through his mind. _The sound of the weapon firing. The stricken look on Jones' face that told him he was too late, that Neal was gone. . . ._

" . . . a stone cold bastard who'd kill Neal as soon as look at him," Jones was continuing, apparently not noticing that Peter's mind had momentarily drifted elsewhere. "Neal was brilliant stalling Wilkes, Peter – brilliant. His life in the balance, and Lindsay's – Wilkes ready to pull the trigger – and Neal was as cool as could be. That girl would be dead if he weren't so damn good. And gutsy. A trained agent couldn't have done any better."

Peter pushed away the unsettling images of what could have been. He couldn't help the sense of pride that rushed through him at Jones' words. "How'd he do it, anyway?" He realized he'd not had the chance to get the full details from Neal, thanks to the consultant's disappearing act yesterday.

"He told Wilkes he'd turned his crew against him and stolen the cards in the briefcase."

Peter exhaled slowly. "I wondered what he said. And Wilkes bought that?"

"Nah, not really. But it gave us a few extra seconds."

"And we needed every one of'em," Peter acknowledged grimly. He thought for a second before adding, "Come to think of it, I don't even know how Neal got the briefcase from Riley in the first place."

Jones had a smile on his face at that remark, which he rapidly schooled to a sober expression when he saw Peter eyeing him shrewdly.

"Looks like _you_ know," Peter said, stating the obvious.

The smile was back, albeit smaller this time. "Oh, you know how it is, there was a lot going on; I might have missed something."

_Yeah, right._

"And hypothetically," Jones continued, "if I _did_ know anything, I'd probably have been sworn to secrecy."

"Oh, sure. Hypothetically," Peter said, with heavy sarcasm.

"But I would imagine it _might_ have involved the little guy."

_Mozzie. Of course. Who else?_

Privately, Peter worried, sometimes, about Mozzie. About the illegal activities he was pretty damned sure Mozzie got up to. About the concomitant trouble he could entangle Neal in – either intentionally, negligently, or just by association. Mozzie shared a long history with Neal, and a level of trust – in certain areas – that Peter knew he himself could never match (no matter what Neal might have said in that clinic; after all, he'd been drugged out of his mind at the time).

Peter worked hard, every day, to keep Neal focused on _this _life, the one where his consultant abided by the law, and not his old one, where the man regularly gave in to all his worst impulses with no thought of consequence. He tried to teach Neal, without ever appearing to, that Neal could not only survive this way, but thrive.

The problem was, Mozzie represented the old life and all the old temptations. He brought them all within arm's length, a constant reminder to Neal of what he'd lost instead of what he'd gained. It wouldn't be hard for Mozzie – with one poorly-timed comment about some perfect heist, or the next big forgery – to undo all the months of progress Peter had made. Mozzie might not even mean to, but he could. And, yet, there was no question that Neal would ever cut Mozzie out of his life; Peter would never ask him to.

So, yeah, Peter worried about Mozzie, sometimes.

Then, other times – like right now – he was fiercely, unrepentantly glad that Neal had someone as street-smart and loyal as Mozzie to back him up when he needed it, with no questions asked – about legal niceties or anything else.

Not that he'd _ever _admit that to Neal. Or to Jones, for that matter.

Instead, he said dryly, "Imagine that – Mozzie was involved. You know, I'd act surprised . . . but I'm not sure I could pull that off if I were Laurence Olivier in his prime."

Jones raised a finger. "_Hypothetically,_ he might have been involved."

"Yeah, yeah," Peter said, tiring of the game.

"But if you don't mind some advice, Peter . . ."

"Sure."

"Then my professional recommendation would be to take a page from the DOD's book and—"

"Don't ask. Don't tell." Peter knew where he was going and finished the sentence with a nod.

"Exactly. Put it this way – I don't think you really want to know," Jones said, serious now. "Look, Riley hopped a plane back to Australia, he's not talking. Neal walked away with the case, he's still breathing. The rest is just . . . details."

"Can't argue with that," Peter said with a sigh, though now he did wonder how Neal was going to spin all of this in his version of events. Suddenly his consultant's early arrival today made a lot more sense.

Peter knew from experience how challenging it was to craft _that_ kind of report. Should make for fascinating reading.

Jones wasn't done, either. "And let's not forget the other important detail: Neal could have run any time he wanted to before that. The tracker was off. But he stayed and risked his life for someone he didn't even know."

"I know it."

"And all because of that—" Jones looked like he wanted to say something else, but he stopped himself and finished with, "because of Agent Rice. She took one hell of a risk with his life."

"Don't worry. She'll get hers. Believe me, I'm going to make sure of that," Peter said with real venom in his voice. "As for Neal – you make sure you put everything in your report."

"Already done," Jones said. "Check your email. And I hope you don't mind, but I cc'd Hughes."

Peter smiled. "Not at all. I appreciate it."

Jones chuckled. "Neal's all right. And some days, like yesterday, he's a hell of a lot more than that."

Peter glanced upstairs to see that Neal had left Hughes' office. _Finally. _He stood outside the door in the upper hallway, staring into space, seeming almost dazed.

"Looks like the show's over," Jones noted.

Peter let out another sigh. "Not quite; that was just the second act."

He made his way up the stairs to where Neal stood.

_This ought to be interesting._

...

TBC – I know I said this was the last part, but I miscalculated. There's one more chapter to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter climbed the stairs and took a few steps to where Neal stood, uncharacteristically still, with one hand on the railing, in the hallway outside Hughes' office.

"So that's all finished. What's up?"

It took Neal a moment to focus on him. "I'm sorry. What?"

"You seem a little shell-shocked."

"Oh, no. No, no, no," Neal shook his head vigorously. "Peter, I am _a lot_ shell-shocked."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Come in here." He put one hand on Neal and, with the other, made a gentle shooing motion in the direction of his office. "Sit."

Once inside, Peter shut the door and, on an impulse he couldn't explain, sat next to Neal instead of in his customary seat on the other side of the desk. Neal didn't look at him, though. He was looking out the window. Staring at where Peter would normally have been – at nothing in particular.

The agent waited for Neal to say something and when the silence dragged on, he prodded.

"So. What happened?" Peter asked briskly.

"You don't know?"

"I want to hear your version."

"_My_ version . . ."

Neal's voice had a bemused, far-away quality Peter hadn't heard before. It made him nervous; Neal hardly ever sounded this unsure of himself.

"He thanked me." Neal was incredulous and not trying to hide it.

Peter relaxed a little. "Why should that surprise you?"

"He barely tolerates me." Neal's tone was resigned, with just a hint of bitterness.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration—"

"Then he apologized to me," Neal said as if Peter hadn't spoken. "He apologized for Agent Rice's 'cavalier and unethical treatment of a valued member of the White Collar unit.' Apparently that member, oddly enough, is me. He also said she would be required to present herself at a disciplinary proceeding and be subject to a full range of sanctions which could include termination from the FBI."

For the first time, Neal looked at Peter. "You know, I always figured that if I ever got an FBI agent fired, it was going to be you."

"Me, too," Peter said honestly, before he could stop himself.

"Yeah, I mean you chased me for _years – _that had to wreak havoc on your clearance rate. Then there was the time we lost the hundred grand, or when Fowler tried to set you up with Judge Clark and the videotape . . ." Neal said, warming to the topic momentarily before his voice trailed off. He paused, shaking his head before getting back on track. "Anyway, he seemed very insistent that Agent Rice is going to catch all kinds of hell for this."

"Damn straight. What he called 'cavalier and unethical,' I'd call malicious, gutless, arguably criminal."

Neal sighed. "Peter. She had her reasons. And it all worked out in the end."

"No thanks to her," Peter said angrily. Neal's passivity was worrisome. He didn't like that Neal was so accepting of this, or so discomfited at the idea that Rice might be punished. "It 'worked out,' as I was saying before, because you are so damn good. And lucky, too."

"It's not the first time I've had a gun pointed at me in this job, Peter."

That stung Peter, and Neal knew it. He regretted his words instantly. It smacked too much of a comparison of Peter and Kimberly Rice, and he would never want Peter to think that Neal equated their treatment of him. The agent didn't deserve that.

Peter looked away. He started to say something and then hesitated, which allowed Neal to cut him off.

"That's not what I meant. I'm _not_ talking about you, or . . . I just mean that I – I'm prepared to take certain risks."

"No," Peter said, his voice strident. "No, this was not an acceptable risk, Neal. It wasn't. Rice covered up what she knew, and she risked your life without giving you any choice in the matter."

"And that's how we get to a disciplinary hearing."

"Oh, yeah," Peter said with feeling. "And I suggest you reconsider your perspective on this whole thing because you could end up as our star witness."

Neal groaned. "No. Not me."

"Who else?"

"_You_ could testify," Neal suggested.

"Oh, I most certainly will," Peter said, with a gleam in his eye and a predatory smile that looked all wrong on him.

Neal swallowed hard at the sight. Earlier, he'd enjoyed the idea that Peter could get over-the-top furious – even vengeful – on his behalf. But _seeing _it was something else again. Like that bizarre apology earlier, it wasn't the Peter he knew and that made Neal deeply uncomfortable, as if solid ground were suddenly shifting beneath his feet.

"Fine, then," Neal told him, sighing inwardly at what he had to say next. "I know from personal experience just how believable _you _are on the stand." Mission accomplished: that made Peter smile – his normal smile this time – and Neal felt an unaccountable sense of relief.

(If there was one thing Neal had learned, it was that giving Peter a chance – any chance – to reminisce about besting Neal was a sure-fire way to cheer the agent up. _He _had to suffer through such moments with gritted teeth. But Peter ate them up like a kid with a fistful of candy and no parents in sight.)

"So if super-witness Peter Burke is going to testify, why do I have to?" Neal countered.

"Don't you want to?"

"Do I want to end an FBI agent's career? Hmmm . . ." Neal cocked his head to the side and raised a finger to his chin in an exaggerated _I'm thinking_ gesture. "Let me ponder that for a while . . . No."

"_You_ wouldn't be ending her career," Peter said patiently. Neal knew this, but apparently he needed reminding. "That's not how it works. You'll just be testifying about what happened and the review board makes the call. You just have to tell the truth. I know it's not your usual style, but try it, maybe you'll like it."

Neal didn't rise to the dig like Peter had hoped he would. "Yes, and I'm sure that will endear me to so many people around here. I learned in prison, Peter – when you're at a disadvantage, don't piss off the people in authority if you don't have to."

"You're comparing the FBI to prison."

"There are more similarities than you might think," Neal said, smiling a little.

Peter ignored that. "Anyway, what makes you think your testimony would piss people off? You seem awfully well informed about what went on here after she handed you to Wilkes. I assume you've already talked to everybody who was within shouting distance."

"Though I will categorically deny that there was any shouting," he added quickly, with a mental wince at his poor choice of words – at the same time that Neal said, with interest, "_Was_ there shouting?"

"Don't play dumb with me; even _you_ couldn't sell that," Peter told him. After a moment, he added, "You know what happened. I'm betting you could probably relay the entire conversation verbatim."

Neal's first response was a very slow, very telling smile. Then he said, casually, "'_Conversation_'? Is _that_ we're calling it? I think 'rant' might be more apropos. Or 'diatribe.' Or perhaps-"

"That's highly subjective—" Peter interrupted.

"No, that's independent corroboration from multiple unimpeachable witnesses, many of whom are upstanding officers of the law," Neal shot back. "Anyway, how do you know exactly whom I talked to?"

"I am a highly trained FBI agent – trained to keep an eye on _you _whenever possible. Also," Peter admitted as an afterthought, "every damn wall in this place is made of glass."

"There is that," Neal agreed. "And here I thought you were working on your report."

"I'm a multi-tasker. I'm also capable of identifying hearsay, by the way. And that's what your 'independent corroboration' is: pure hearsay. All of it," Peter intoned in his most professional FBI agent voice, the one Neal had rarely ever heard him use except when testifying in court.

"Trying to intimidate me with legal jargon, eh?" Neal asked. "No court of law here, though. And if you're going to go there, keep in mind: there are sooo many exceptions to the hearsay rule, Peter."

"Oh, now you're a legal expert."

"I studied the law for a while," Neal said with a slight shrug, looking away modestly.

"Really? Which of your aliases went to law school?"

"Not law school," Neal said patiently. "Prison."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"Wow, studying the law in prison. That's really kind of . . . cliched," Peter said.

"I know," Neal agreed, frowning. "Disappointing. But hey, with that much time to kill, a person can learn a lot. . ."

"Fine, Clarence Darrow, you can sit for the bar exam later." Peter's patience was wearing thin. "First, let me finish my point: Do you really think I was the only one who wanted to throttle her?"

Neal looked at Peter for a long moment, his gaze appreciative. When he spoke, his tone was grave. "You're _admitting_ that you wanted to throttle her." He cleared his throat. "Am I allowed to say that I am really . . . touched that you wanted to throttle your colleague on my behalf?"

Peter didn't answer. He didn't need to; the forbidding look on his face was enough.

"Okay, guess not. But I am," Neal said quickly. "Back to your question: Were you the only one who wanted to throttle her? No. But you also referred to her as a 'rising star' in the Bureau. _You're_ not a fan – we established that early on – but she must have some sort of cheering section."

"That was before she almost succeeded in getting you killed."

Neal shot him an appraising look. "Not everyone around here would get too worked up about that—" Peter started to interrupt him and Neal forestalled him with a raised hand " . . . and you know it. You're angry because you care, Peter, and I appreciate it. More than that – I rely on it. But this brings us back to the question: what's Hughes' angle?"

"He cares, too," Peter insisted. Knowing how hollow the words sounded, he added hastily, "I mean, he's not going to show it, but he does. In his own way."

"What a charming way of putting it," Neal said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But in _what _way, exactly? By the end of our . . . discussion, he seemed not so much angry – like you are now – but apprehensive. What's interesting about Hughes," Neal said, almost to himself, "is that while I'm sure he does care – to a point – he also sounded very much like a man who was concerned about the threat of . . . litigation." He said the last word delicately, with a meaningful glance at Peter.

The agent raised an eyebrow, his tone innocent. "Meaning?"

Neal's exasperation was unmistakable. "Peter, I know I don't have to spell it out for you, of all people."

"I suppose it's possible that someone could have implied that you might have a cause of action against the Bureau as a result of what Rice did," Peter said evenly.

Now Neal was staring at him with something close to horror on his face. "Peter, please don't tell me that you—"

The agent cut him off. "But on the other hand, Hughes didn't get where he is by being stupid. He's well aware of the ramifications. He doesn't need anyone to spell it out for him, either."

"Suing the FBI never even occurred to me," Neal admitted. He sounded almost petulant that he hadn't thought of it first.

"Knowing you, you probably would have come round to it eventually," Peter told him magnanimously. He meant it, too – underestimating Neal was a fool's game, as Peter well knew.

A small smile played around the corners of Neal's lips. "Well, if I didn't, I'm sure my lawyer would have."

"I don't doubt it," Peter told him, with a mock glare.

A little silence fell, and Neal was once again looking pensive, attention fixed on the buildings outside the window. Peter cast about for something to bring him back to reality. He was about to suggest they think about lunch when Neal spoke.

"You know, I haven't even told you the _best_ part yet." The suddenly sarcastic note in his voice sent all thoughts of lunch flying away, replaced with the sound of a little alarm bell clanging in Peter's head.

"I'm all ears."

"Hughes also filled me on a phone conversation he had this morning with Stuart Gless."

"Oh?" Peter said, striving to keep it casual - and hoping Neal couldn't hear the effort in his voice.

"Gless called Hughes personally to express his deep appreciation for the Bureau's efforts in general – and mine in particular."

"That was . . . thoughtful of him," Peter said. He kept his tone even because Neal's reaction was too muted somehow – lacking the enthusiasm Peter might have expected.

"Yes, it was. _Very _thoughtful. Did you put him up to it?" Neal said, so quickly that the words ran together. There was no gratitude in his voice, only the faint hint of accusation.

"No," Peter said, just as quickly.

"Really." Neal's voice was thick with disbelief.

"Really," Peter told him. He knew he couldn't leave it there, though. "All right, I thought about it," he admitted, "but he beat me to it."

Neal didn't answer, just threw Peter a questioning look.

"I'd planned to call him about the case," Peter acknowledged, "and then work my way around to suggesting that he consider putting a good word in . . ."

"Kind of devious of you," Neal pointed out, but his usual teasing tone was missing.

Peter favored him with a slight smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Maybe a little." Then he shrugged, turning serious. "Anyway, Gless called me first. Said he wanted to know who else he should contact at the Bureau to put his gratitude on the record."

"So you gave him Hughes' name." Neal still sounded vaguely unhappy, which mystified Peter. As a rule, Peter Burke prided himself on his ability to keep up with his consultant's unorthodox and twisty thought processes. But somewhere in this conversation, Neal had made a surprise turn, and Peter now found himself hopelessly lost.

"Yes, I referred him to Hughes. I was glad to do it. And you should be, too, Neal." He waited a moment before he said, with emphasis, "This is a good thing."

Neal sounded oddly impatient. "Gless laid it on pretty thick, apparently. Told Hughes I was courageous and selfless."

Peter frowned, not bothering to hide his frustration at Neal's tone. "Those are _compliments_, Neal. You make them sound like insults."

Neal ignored that. "He also said he'd be eager to speak on my behalf at any future hearing on a reduction of my sentence."

At the risk of stating the obvious, Peter was about to say, again, _this is a good thing,_ but Neal spoke first.

"I've been called a lot of things, but 'courageous' and 'selfless' have never been among them," he said, shaking his head.

"There's a first time for everything," Peter said with a smile. Then he added, "Personally I've always known the potential was there."

Neal locked eyes with Peter; Peter didn't like what he saw there. "Oh, so _that's_ why you got me out of prison?"

That was not at all what he'd been expecting. Neal had never really asked him that, not directly, and it was strange that he'd raise it now.

"That's quite a question," Peter said, playing for time in a way Neal no doubt would find transparent. He couldn't yet discern where Neal was going with this, but he sensed the need to tread carefully.

"You agreed to our deal because you thought I was courageous and selfless?" Neal persisted. He was relentless, like a defense attorney cross-examining a hostile witness. Well, Peter had certainly dealt with enough of _those _over the years.

"I agreed to our deal for many reasons. Some of them were selfish – I knew how smart you were, and I believed you could help me do my job better. And some of them were more . . . altruistic. I thought maybe I could help you, too."

"Fascinating, but not really responsive to my question."

Peter sighed. "What do you want me to say? Don't you know this already? I thought I saw something in you that was worth cultivating. Yes, I saw a hell of a lot of potential in you, Neal. And you've proven me right, by the way."

"I have?" Neal's tone bordered on contemptuous.

Peter scrutinized him for a long moment. "This self-flagellation is a marked departure for you, Neal. Yes, you've proven me right. For one thing, you saved that girl's life yesterday."

"Well, _you_ kind of spearheaded that part."

Peter waved a dismissive hand. "Team effort – like everything we do," he acknowledged. "But we would never have been in a position to get to her - if not for you."

A shadow seemed to pass across Neal's face as his expression darkened. "I keep hearing that." His voice grew cold and he looked out the window again as he shifted in the chair, crossing his arms. "It's as if no one realizes that Lindsay would never have been taken in the first place,_ if not for me_."

Peter held his breath, but otherwise didn't react. He just waited, feeling something tighten in his chest.

"Wilkes didn't have any real connection to Stuart Gless. He took his daughter as a way to try to get to _me_." Neal paused before he said, in a lower voice, "If I hadn't forged those bonds back then, Lindsay would never have been in danger all these years later—" he stopped himself and met Peter's gaze again.

"But _you've_ already thought of that."

For long seconds, Peter didn't move. Finally he nodded and said, quietly, "I was wondering whether you would."

"I have." Two words, but they spoke volumes. Neal hunched over, arms tightly crossed, eyes downcast.

Peter exhaled slowly. It was the kind of admission that gave him hope – real hope – for Neal for the long term.

"I couldn't have known . . ." Neal started, but his voice faltered.

"No, you couldn't have," Peter agreed neutrally.

So many thoughts raced through Peter's head, so many things he could say. _You couldn't have known. But breaking the law has consequences, Neal. Unforeseen consequences. Potentially tragic results, for innocent people, in ways you never could imagine. This is what can happen when you give in to impulse._ _This is an example of why it's dangerous, why you can't live that life._ He was going to make those points to Neal, reinforce this most important of lessons.

Then Neal dragged his gaze up to meet Peter's once more. And all Peter's morality messages, all his carefully crafted lecture points, died away at the sight.

Because Neal knew. He _knew_. And the realization had shaken him. It was visible everywhere, in the deadened quality of his eyes, devoid of any spark, in the bitter twist of his mouth, in the slumped posture, in the utter silence. Maybe for the first time in his life, Peter thought, Neal _knew_.

Neal had turned to stare out the window. When Peter spoke again, his voice was so gentle he surprised himself. "It's hard, Neal. It's . . . it's frightening to know that what you do can hurt other people. But once you do know, it's also liberating, in a way. It frees you to be someone who acts with that knowledge in mind, always."

"I hate to give Ryan Wilkes any credit. But I will say this: he knew you."

As Peter had hoped it would, that got Neal's attention. He looked sharply back at Peter.

The agent continued, "There's a reason he used an innocent to manipulate you – because he knew you're the kind of person who wouldn't think twice about risking your own life to save hers. Whatever else you've done, whoever else you've been, _that's _who you are, too, Neal."

A beat later, Peter added, "And that is the definition of selfless, whether you're comfortable with it or not."

Long moments passed in silence.

Neal rubbed his face with his left hand, and rested his chin on his hand. His right arm was still wrapped around his body, but he sat up straighter. When he turned to look at Peter, his gaze seemed clearer, though he was still frowning. "Still, Gless obviously hasn't thought of any of this."

Peter shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. It's a natural reaction. Forgeries from years ago are the last thing on his mind right now. His daughter's alive today because of what you did yesterday. That's all he cares about. People tend to react emotionally when . . ." Peter cleared his throat before continuing, "when someone they care about is threatened."

That remark seemed to bring Neal back to himself. "Mmm. So I've heard," Neal said, raising an eyebrow and fixing Peter with a meaningful look. "And, apparently, sometimes they react very . . . _loudly_."

Now Peter was the one to look away. He let out a rueful little laugh.

"Okay, fine. It's what you want to hear, right? Yes, I blew up at Rice – in front of the entire office, including Hughes. Who did _not_ chew me out for it, by the way, which should tell you he was every bit as pissed – and worried – as I was."

He glanced at Neal, secretly pleased at the wry, affectionate smile that had crept onto his consultant's face.

"You _do_ care, Peter. Probably too much." Neal shook his head. "It's going to get you into trouble one of these days."

Peter snorted. "Too late." They shared a knowing smile at his inadvertent echo of Neal's words at the airport the day before.

"But I've got absolutely no regrets on this one," Peter added. "Rice deserved everything she got."

"But does she deserve to lose her job?" Neal said absently.

Peter gave an impatient head shake. "Don't get too worked up about Kimberly Rice's brilliant career. I highly doubt they'll fire her for this, even if I might think it's what she deserves."

Neal nodded, taking that in. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful.

"It may sound crazy for me to stick up for her, but she's not a bad person, Peter. I mean, true, she's ambitious to a fault," he admitted. "And, okay, a touch ruthless. Not to mention a lot arrogant . . . but she just wanted to make sure that Lindsay—"

"Right, Neal, I get it. Spare me the platitudes. Her intentions were good, et cetera, et cetera. Do we have to talk about the road to hell here?"

"And speaking of hell," Neal retorted, "I think it just froze over. In the same day, you've not only referenced Karl Marx, but you've also apologized to me. And so did Hughes. Look at it from my perspective, Peter: It's a world gone mad_._"

Peter wanted to laugh, but kept his voice mock-stern. "Again, you're exaggerating. And, again, there's a first time for everything."

"Yes, well, let's make it the last time, okay? If this ever happens again, I may die of shock," Neal informed him solemnly.

_And he wasn't really kidding._

"Nice to know we can still surprise you now and again," Peter said, allowing himself a real grin, finally.

Neal shook his head and, a moment later, laughed.

Mozzie was right: he didn't need any more mystery in his life. Or surprises, either. Especially if they were courtesy of Peter Burke. He liked the solid, predictable Peter whose every move he could see coming (well, mostly), who expressed exasperation and not open affection. He needed the _consistent_ Peter (no matter what nonsense Peter spouted off about dead people being the only truly consistent ones, the fact was that Peter's consistency was one of the qualities Neal relied on the most).

A Peter who apologized to him, who looked ready to go Rambo when Neal was threatened - well, he sounded good at first, but that guy was a stranger Neal didn't really want around, he decided. At least, not often.

One loose cannon in this partnership was enough.

Peter's next words brought him out of his reverie. "If you can handle it, I've got one more surprise for you. Good thing you're already sitting down."

Neal eyed him warily.

"Lunch is on me," Peter announced. "Let's go." He didn't even wait for Neal to say _yes_, or _thanks_; he just got up, grabbed his jacket, and motioned Neal to follow.

...

Now this _would_ be fun.

Neal had formulated his strategy before he'd even gotten out the door of Peter's office. Just like planning a heist – you needed plans and then contingency plans. Oh, yes. He'd suggest, one by one, the most prohibitively expensive restaurants in New York City, which the ever-practical Peter would then reject, one by one, no doubt amid much appalled spluttering about ridiculously overpriced, overrated Manhattan cuisine. If he played his cards right and started high enough, he'd still get a really good meal out of Peter after some protracted bargaining. As always, Neal relished the thought of playing the game with such a worthy opponent.

Hmm, where to start? He would love to suggest Masa – because, really, you couldn't get more overpriced than _that _– but even he couldn't get in there without a reservation. Too easy for Peter to shoot that one down on purely logistical grounds.

Of course, the same would probably be true of his second choice, Per Se, but – aha! Yes, he knew one of the sommeliers there. Jean-Marc could probably get them in without much of a wait. A little voice in his head said that maybe that wasn't fair to Peter and his government salary: Per Se's nine-course _prix fixe_ lunch menu was in the neighborhood of three hundred dollars.

Then again, who ever said life was fair? Neal knew that better than anyone. Plus, it was certainly not _his_ fault that Peter had chosen the civil service instead of a more lucrative career - with a big-time expense account.

Anyway, the devil's advocate voice in his mind pointed out that there was a cheaper option available. Admittedly, "cheaper" was a relative term in this case: the five-course meal at Per Se ran about one-ninety per person, give or take.

As they walked down the stairs, Neal wondered idly if Peter "Meat and Potatoes" Burke had ever even heard of a truly fine dining establishment like Per Se. No doubt Elizabeth would have . . . . Well, if Peter _had _heard of it, then Neal was going to find out just how guilty Peter really felt about yesterday . . .

At his desk, Neal stopped to scoop up his hat and suit jacket - but only briefly - since Peter kept going. Truly, he was a man on a lunch mission. Singularly focused, as always. Yes, that was the Peter he knew.

Peter had slowed by Jones' desk to tell him they'd be gone a while, to hold the fort. Neal hurried to catch up.

"Hold it for me?"

Peter sighed and performed the obligatory eye roll when Neal held out the hat, but he grudgingly accepted it so Neal could put on his suit coat while they walked.

As he slipped the jacket on, Neal started his patter. "Thank you, Peter. I really appreciate this."

Peter shook his head, pushing open the door that led to the elevators. "Don't mention it."

"This is a surprise – and very generous of you. Now that you mention lunch, there is a place I've been dying to go back to – lovely views of Columbus Circle and Central Park and a gastronomical experience you'll never forget."

Peter reached for the elevator button. He turned to hand Neal his hat.

Neal continued, voice affectionate and cheery. "Not sure if you're familiar with it – it's called Per Se," he said with a smile.

Peter's answering smile froze on his face. His finger stayed locked on the "down" button as if it had been glued there. He stared at Neal with eyes that suddenly looked glassy.

The fedora fell from suddenly-loose fingers; Neal caught it neatly before it could hit the floor.

_So he has heard of Per Se, after all . . ._

The End

Yes, Masa and Per Se are real, as are the prices referenced. Supposedly both are quite good.

Thanks for reading my first fic! Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing.


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